


It's Platonic Until It's Not

by hbunting1403



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire, Art, Awkward Flirting, Blow Jobs, Derek doesn't understand human interaction, Derek has graduated college, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, Hands, M/M, Scent Marking, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Stargazing, Stiles is a week away from being 18, Werewolf Derek, everything is completely consensual, sorry I just couldn't be bothered to put any other characters in, the Camaro is sexy as hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-19
Updated: 2017-06-22
Packaged: 2018-10-08 01:12:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10374501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hbunting1403/pseuds/hbunting1403
Summary: Yes, Scott and Stiles sleep in the same bed. Stiles would rather cut off both of his hands than touch Scott sexually, but he’s no stranger to showing affection, and they cuddle on a pretty regular basis. Their relationship is, in Stiles’ eyes, normal and healthy and exactly what they both need. Then Scott meets Alison, and they fall in love over a fucking pen (which is sickly sweet but so Scott), and Stiles suddenly has a lot more time on his hands.Cue pottery classes, stargazing, a new friendship, and a lot of (totally platonic) fantasizing.Even if Derek is hotter than the sun.





	1. Stories Across the Sky

Scott and Stiles have been friends since the days when playing in a sand pit was a fun, diverting activity, and not a health and safety nightmare. They’ve shared heartbreak (Stiles with Lydia in third grade), health scares (Scott’s asthma nearly killed him in fifth grade when he lost his inhaler and started panicking), and supernatural forces trying to ruin their lives (although they’re both used to Scott being a werewolf by this point in time; old news).

Basically, Stiles’ relationship with Scott is probably not an accurate reflection of your average teenage bromance. They’ve seen each other naked a handful of times (all by accident, and all followed by hysterical laughter from one or both parties) and they still have sleepovers, even though they’re nearly eighteen. And yes, they sleep in the same bed. Stiles would rather cut off both of his hands than touch his bro sexually, but he’s no stranger to showing affection, and they cuddle on a pretty regular basis. Their relationship is, in Stiles’ eyes, normal and healthy and exactly what they both need.

Then Scott meets Alison, and they fall in love over a fucking pen (which is sickly sweet but _so_ Scott), and Stiles suddenly has a lot more time on his hands. He doesn’t begrudge Scott all this extra happiness, because his best friend deserves someone as adorable as he is to stare lovingly at over coffee, but he’s now got a lot of extra hours to spare when they’re off gallivanting.

Urgh, he feels old.

Enter art classes. Stiles is not a good artist – he never has been – but he’s enthusiastic. His mom was an incredible painter and sculptor, and she was always so patient with him, even through the worst days of his ADHD (before he was diagnosed and had meds to keep that shit on lockdown). He once found a tranquillity in art that he’s suddenly got time to look for again, so… art classes.

There are a couple of groups at the community centre that fit around his school-homework-feed his dad schedule, and it’s the pottery one that really catches his eye. It’s the closest he can get to his mom’s love of sculpting, though he knows he’ll never be able to make anything like the beautiful, twisting abstract pieces that still fill their attic.

His dad has questions.

“You’re still going to get all your homework done, right?” the sheriff says seriously, pointing a fork at his son with an eyebrow raised. Stiles rolls his eyes.

“No, dad – I’m going to get multiple detentions from Mr Harris again just so I can smother myself in wet clay,” he says, spearing a potato with his own fork and popping it pointedly into this mouth.

He knows his dad just cares about him getting through what little remains of his school year without too bumpy a ride, but he doesn’t understand Stiles’ ways of keeping his mom close. For John, it’s too painful.

* * *

It’s a Thursday night, school’s out, and it’s his first pottery lesson. He’s wearing a sinfully old pair of jeans that may be more hole than denim, and a ratty old slogan t-shirt that reads, ironically, ‘Slogans Are Tacky’. He thinks it might be one that Scott got him, and he’d never had the heart to tell him it wasn’t really funny.

It’s a few minutes after the class was supposed to start, and there’s only a couple of seats left – including one next to Stiles – which helps Stiles to breathe a little easier. The last thing he wants is some perfectionist gritting their teeth and looking over his shoulder at the knobbly creations that will no doubt die a death beneath his clumsy hands.

And then someone else _does_ come into the room, and Stiles wishes he’d scoured his wardrobe for something that made him look a little older than twelve, because the man in front of him is unbearably attractive. The furrow between his frankly _majestic_ eyebrows doesn’t exactly make him look approachable, but his muscled forearms ( _thank you, god(s) of pottery_ ) kind of distract from that anyway – as do the shifting thigh muscles clad in dark washed denim.

Stiles does not consider himself to be gay. He doesn’t consider himself to be straight either, though – not to be overly simplistic, but he’s basically an equal opportunities kinda guy, especially since his gangling, awkward, pale existence isn’t exactly inviting. He needs to keep his options open. But still, he knows some people are relative asshats, so he tries not to stare too hard, and lets some of the tension drain out of his body when Broody And Handsome sits in one of the _other_ spare seats instead of the one next to him.

He’s not disappointed in the slightest.

“Good evening everyone – lovely to see so many new faces in the room!” Stiles jumps; he hadn’t even realised that the teacher had come in. In fact, he realises as he takes in her clay-encrusted dungarees, tumbling curls, and beaming face, he had seen her but had mistaken her for a student at first glance. She reminds him a little of his mom, and he clamps down quickly on the lump that tries to form in his throat. He’s here to stay close to her, not to run away from every little thing that reminds him of her. He straightens his back and gets ready to pay more attention to a class than he’s ever done in his life.

“We all know why we’re here, so I won’t bore you all to death with a history lesson around pottery – although I do a lecture on Sundays if you prefer your church a little more art-based,” she adds with a wink, and there are a few titters around the room. Stiles smiles, relaxing a little into his chair. “As we do have so many newcomers, we’re going to start off with some basics today – bowls, vases, that sort of thing – and anybody who’s a little more experienced can go with their gut.” She nods at Broody And Handsome and grins. “Derek, if you give me a bowl I might have to hit you over the head with it.” To Stiles’ surprise, he grins back, and it’s disgustingly beautiful on his chiselled face.

He’ll probably have to stop calling him Broody And Handsome in his head now.

The teacher (Clara, if memory serves) rounds on Stiles as soon as everyone starts working – it turns out he’s the only idiot to have come into the room without any recent experience of a pottery wheel. Clara seems genuinely enthusiastic about having new blood in the class, which does slightly ease his guilt. He tries not to jiggle his leg while she drags the spare chair a little closer to him.

“Hey!” she says, her reserves of zeal apparently unending. “So, you ever used a potter’s wheel before?” Stiles goes to shake his head, then cocks it to the side in thought instead.

“When I was a kid my mom used to let me help her with all the bizarre creations she’d make, so I think I must have used one once…” He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “Kind of got out of the habit though, sorry.” Clara looks at him closely and suddenly something in her face changes.

“I thought I recognised you –  Mieczyslaw! I should’ve known, you look just like Claudia!” Stiles stills the hand on his neck, but doesn’t move; he just stares at her. For starters, not only does she know his first name (which he didn’t include on his booking for this class) but her pronunciation is perfect, and secondly (and he doesn’t know how he knows this) he can feel Derek staring at him from across the room. His face is burning.

“You knew my mom?” he asks in disbelief. I mean, it’s not all that hard to believe – Beacon Hills is _not_ a big place – but sometimes it does feel like he’s the only one who remembers her; like maybe she never actually existed. Clara nods warmly, which eases something in Stiles’ chest that he didn’t even know was there.

“We actually used to go to pottery classes just like this together,” she says, indicating the room at large. On autopilot, Stiles’ eyes follow the movement of her arms, and he finds himself struggling not to choke when he realises that, yes, Derek _is_ looking at him, and now they’re kind of staring at each other.

He tears his eyes away sharpish because Derek is a) far too good-looking to stare at for any length of time without going blind, and b) looks like he might murder somebody. That somebody might be Stiles.

“Claudia was always much better than I was,” Clara is saying, and Stiles rips his attention back to where it should be; he can still feel Derek’s eyes on him though. “Anyway – let’s see what her son can do! Look at you, all grown up. I remember when you were knee-high to a grasshopper! Boy, do I feel old…”

She carries on with this low level of chatter while she shows him how to beat the excess air out of the clay, centre it on the pottery wheel, and set it to work. Once she’s shown him the ropes she lets him have a go, and he delights in the familiar feeling of cool, wet clay shaping itself beneath his fingers. He runs his hands, fingers splayed, up and down the clay as he forms it into a rough pillar, but gets a bit distracted when he hears someone choking on the other side of the room. He glances up from his lumpy creation to see Derek, slightly red in the face, being passed a bottle of water by the woman who’s sitting next to him.

Stiles definitely doesn’t watch the movement of his throat as he swallows.

* * *

“I hope we’ll be seeing you next week,” Clara says enthusiastically to Stiles at the end of the class, holding the door open for him to exit the hall. He smiles genuinely at her and glances back at the lump of clay he managed to make into something approximating a vase today. His eyes linger on the back of Derek’s neck as he packs away his things.

“Yeah,” he says decisively. “This was great – helps me feel a bit closer to mom, y’know?” Clara’s eyes are kind as she places a hand on his shoulder.

“She was a good friend, and a good mother. I hope this class can help you the way it’s helped me with so many things over the years.” The smile he gives her now is probably a little more watery than he’d like to admit.

“Thanks – I’ll see you next week.” He’s out the door and into the fresh evening air a moment later, realising a little too late that it’s colder than he’d been anticipating. He’d walked from home – it had only taken half an hour – and now it’s quickly becoming cold and dark. And, of course, he hasn’t brought a jacket, because that would require _planning_ and _forward-thinking_. He does not really possess either of these qualities.

He’s debating checking the buses when he hears someone clear their throat behind him. He absolutely does not scream but he does make a strangled sort of yelp as he twists around to see-

“Oh! Hi… Derek?” he says slowly, like he’s not 100% sure that’s the guy’s name. Derek’s brow is still furrowed, but Stiles could swear the corner of his mouth twitches slightly.

“Hi. It’s freezing – you’re not walking home.” This is said very abruptly and without room for argument; Stiles vaguely thinks that should have sounded like a question, and it probably would have from anybody else’s mouth.

Stiles, it should be noted, is very good at pointless arguments – like the ones he has with his teachers about the relevance of the topic at hand to his outstanding essays on the history of male circumcision.

“I kind of am though,” he says, cocking his head to the side, because for some reason his mouth just runs away with him sometimes. “I could jog but I’m not really built for long distance. Lacrosse I can do, but running? I don’t think it’s in my nature. What do you suggest as an alternative?” He licks his lips reflexively (something Lydia has said makes him look like some kind of lizard person, charming woman that she is) and it must be a trick of the light because it looks like Derek’s eyes flash.

“Natural selection at its finest,” Derek says drily, and Stiles’ heart fucking stutters in his chest because _he had not bargained on this guy having a sense of humour_. He is absolutely and unequivocally doomed. Derek crosses his arms across his chest – which only emphasises his stupidly muscular arms, the bastard – and nods towards a heartbreakingly beautiful black Camaro.

“I’m offering you a lift,” he says simply, staring Stiles down as though daring him to say no to such a kind gesture. Never mind the fact that he shouldn’t get in cars with strangers, especially not strangers who do weird things to his insides, and who have the eyebrows of a murderer.

“Um, thanks, I think? I don’t want you to go out of your way though. Also, you know – stranger danger and all that.” Derek raises an eyebrow.

“I live out on the Preserve,” he says simply, which – okay, his house is on the way there at least. He didn’t realise anybody lived out there, but that doesn’t really negate the ‘stranger danger’ element of this equation. He’s about to say as much when Derek continues. “I think you’re in some classes with my sister. Cora?”

“Ah, so being sarcastic and attractive is a family trait, is it?” Stiles says without thinking and, hoping that Derek hasn’t actually registered the latter part of this comparison, continues quickly. “Tell Cora to give me back my history notes – I’m getting suspicious she’s set them on fire as part of some kind of ritual. If I hand in another essay on a completely unrelated, if vastly more interesting topic, I’m definitely going to be suspended.” Before Derek can answer, Stiles marches towards the (thankfully unlocked) Camaro, swings the passenger door open, and clambers inside, shutting the door after him.

After an agonising moment, Derek follows, opening the door and smoothly sliding into the driver’s seat. He looks effortlessly cool, and it really bothers Stiles that he can even make getting into a _car_ look like a piece of performance art.

They drive in relative silence, Stiles lost for words for once in his life, but it’s not wholly uncomfortable. He spends most of the journey trying not to watch Derek’s arms whenever he’s shifting gears, and he’s seriously glad the journey’s so short because he’s failing miserably.

They pull up in front of his house after the longest five minutes of Stiles’ life, and he breathes a sigh of relief when he sees only his own battered Jeep in the driveway. No police cruiser means no dad, which means no awkward questions about riding home with attractive strangers at night, and forgetting to put provisions in place like _a goddamn jacket_. He sighs and turns to Derek, who’s staring out the front windshield with grim determination. Well, okay then.

“Thanks for the ride. I’ll see you next Thursday…?” Derek glances at him then and nods, and Stiles has his hand on the door handle when he hears him speak.

“If you want a lift, be out here for half seven,” he says, giving absolutely no indication of whether or not he actually _wants_ Stiles in his car for ten minutes every week. It seems like he maybe doesn’t, but Stiles isn’t going to say no to a free ride in a cool car (sorry Roscoe) with an objectively hot human being. He’s not gay (probably) but he can appreciate good-looking people.

He can appreciate them in a multitude of different ways.

Stiles shakes his head, then realises it looks like he’s saying no to the ride, and hastens to accept the surprise invitation. “Yes! I mean yeah, thanks,” he says, somewhat lamely, but Derek looks… pleased? I mean, he’s not looking directly at Stiles any more, but he could swear the corner of his mouth has turned up slightly. Maybe he has a nervous tick.

He gets out the car and Derek drives away immediately – maybe in a futile attempt to run away from his newfound responsibilities, Stiles thinks, fumbling stupidly with his keys and dropping them twice. When he finally gets inside he realises just how tired he really is, barely making it through a quick shower before falling face first onto his bed with a groan of enjoyment. He loves bed. Bed is his favourite place in the world.

He wonders idly what Derek made in class today, before dropping almost immediately into a deep sleep.

He dreams of flashing eyes and really huge vases.

* * *

Cora surprises him at school by actually giving him back his history notes (which he has genuinely been missing - they’re really good notes too, all colour coded and shit). She then punches him none-too-gently in the arm.

“Ow?” Stiles says, more confused than anything - I mean, she’s not even glaring at him, so he’s not sure if she’s actually mad. Or _why_ she would be mad.

“So!” she says, and she sounds oddly cheery for a woman who just punched an innocent man for no reason.

“I’m sorry have I done something? Did I sleepwalk into your house and break something you love? Because I’m not 100% sure I deserve this treatment but I’ve been wrong before.” Cora raises her eyebrows at him and how the _hell_ did he not notice how much Derek looked like her the second he started with his eyebrow-based conversational skills?

“You got to ride in the _Camaro_ ,” she says, leaning against the locker next to his and smirking. They don’t have a lot of lessons together and, though they’ve always got on, he’s not sure why she’s being so pally with him all of a sudden. Over a car?

“Oh yeah - I met your brother yesterday,” he says conversationally, like he’s not thinking about the guy’s arms all over again. “He, being a stand-up gentleman, offered me a lift home and I, being a Southern fucking belle apparently, accepted. It was cold.”

“He never lets anyone ride in the Camaro,” she says accusingly, like he has some kind of answer for that, when it wasn’t even a question. Stiles shrugs, more confused now than he was when she started this weird conversation.

“Okay but it was a one-time-” he starts to say, stopping abruptly when he remembers that Derek has actually offered him lifts for the foreseeable future. Twice daily. Thursday nights. For the pottery class they take together. Totally normal. Cora is narrowing her eyes at him.

“He’s totally offered to pick you up next week, hasn’t he.” And she’s doing that thing that Derek does (apparently after ten minutes tops in the guy’s company he know what he’s talking about) where he states things that should be questions.

“Urgh, is that a Hale thing?” he asks irritably, slamming his locker shut and dragging his bag back up onto his shoulder where it’s slipped down his arm. “Do you people just not do question marks?” He doesn’t even know why he’s annoyed. Cora looks like she’s about to say something else (and it would probably have been sarcastic), but the bell rings and if they don’t both run now they’ll be late for whatever bullshit they have to get through to finally reach the weekend. Cora shrugs.

“You ask enough questions for both of us,” she says, only one eyebrow raised now (her facial muscles must get a hell of a workout from all her eyebrow waggling), before strutting off to whatever poor teacher now has to deal with her sass.

He’s nearly late to English, making it by the skin of his teeth, and even then he gets a reproachful look from the teacher. He mouths ‘sorry’ and shuffles into the seat next to Scott (the best buddy he could ever ask for, as long as Allison doesn’t need a seat saving - in which case he’s screwed). Scott turns to him, mouth open, but he doesn’t get a chance to ask whatever burning question can’t be shared in a text, because the lesson’s starting. Scott huffs like a frustrated puppy and turns to face the front of the class.

Stiles is very confused by the people in his life today.

* * *

Scott corners him immediately after class and pulls him off to one side.

“Dude, what did you _do_ last night?” he asks in a hushed whisper, as students flow around them like water, oblivious to their muted conversation. Stiles frowns.

“I told you, I’m going to pottery classes now,” he says, bemused. “We discussed this for like, a whole hour while playing Mario Kart. How do you not remember this?” But Scott is shaking his head impatiently.

“No I mean what else did you do?” Stiles blinks at him.

“I went home?” he ventures - and suddenly he realises what’s happening and lets out a breath of relief. “Oh! I got a lift. Do I smell weird to you? I bet I smell super weird.” He stops short of sniffing his own shirt when he sees the look of confused urgency lift slightly from Scott’s face.

“Oh!” he says, leaning back and blinking slightly. “Okay. But it smells like-” They’re interrupted by Cora, who seems to have appeared from _nowhere_ , and Stiles is suddenly struck by the realisation that the people in front of him haven’t actually met. Scott, obsessed as he is with Allison, probably forgets most of the time that other women exist, and they’ve never mentioned each other.

“Hey, Scott,” she says brightly, glancing at Stiles with a nod. Scott defaults back to confused, which is a look he wears well.

“Do I-” he starts, but Cora interrupts him.

“I’m Cora Hale, my family’s friends with Deaton - he’s told me a lot about you! I just wondered if you had a sec? I’ve got a pet problem,” she says sweetly, which sets off alarm bells in Stiles’ head - Cora is many things, but ‘sweet’ is not usually one of them. Scott, however, sees the best in everyone, and he gives her a slightly bemused smile.

“I mean, sure, but Deaton’s better at these things than I am-”

“Great, it’ll only take a second!” And before Stiles can say a word - a rare occurrence in most situations, but something that keeps happening around the Hale family - Cora is maneuvering Scott away, and they soon disappear into the crowds of high school students.

“Hey!” Stiles shouts after them, but all he gets in return is the odd dirty look from the younger students - which is, wow, super rude. He runs a hand through his hair, which is the longest it’s been in a while, and swears under his breath when he realises how late he already is for his next class.

Friday can eat his entire ass.

* * *

He avoids a detention, tries and fails to find Scott at his locker at the end of school, and makes his way home feeling frustrated for some reason; he just can’t figure Cora out and, to be honest, he’s a little terrified of her. There’s something about her smile that makes a primal thing deep inside him want to take a step back.

He’s hoping she hasn’t killed Scott, because he’d definitely want to take vengeance, but she could totally kick his pasty ass.

His dad’s at work - night shifts for at least the next week - so he doesn’t feel too bad about finishing off last night’s leftovers. He leans on the counter, arms crossed over his chest, and taps his foot absentmindedly on the floor while the microwave goes to work. What had been _up_ with Cora today? She was acting really weird about him getting lifts with her brother, and then there was the thing with Scott…

He eats distractedly, getting as much of the lasagne in his lap as in his mouth; he sighs, pulling the t-shirt over his head and throwing it in the laundry basket. He’s ready for pyjamas anyway, and this decision has nothing to do with the fact that he’s incapable of eating like an adult.

He can’t concentrate on homework, which admittedly is nothing new. He taps the pen against his mouth and, after realising he honestly isn’t going to be able to sleep without figuring this out, grabs his phone and calls Scott.

“Pick up you piece of--”

“Hello?” Scott answers just before it goes to voicemail (yes, Stiles knows how many rings that is), and he sounds perfectly normal and unharmed.

“Scott! You totally disappeared on me earlier. Did Cora experiment on you or try to harvest your organs for sale on the black market?” Scott laughs, which helps to release some of the tension that’s been building up Stiles’ shoulders.

“I’m pretty sure I still have all my organs - and no experiments either. She only kept me for five minutes but I went straight to Deaton after school.” Now, Scott isn’t lying to him - because he’s incapable of lying, which makes being a supernatural creature a very dangerous thing - but he’s definitely omitting something.

“Right, but what actually _happened_ ?” Stiles asks, going for the blunt approach; Scott is not a complicated guy, and usually caves under the merest ounce of pressure. He can almost _hear_ Scott’s eyes darting from side-to-side, trying to come up with a plausible lie that will fool his best friend - spoiler alert: _this perfect lie does not exist_.

Then Stiles hears Melissa shouting something in the background that sounds suspiciously like ‘dinner’ and curses internally. Scott, on the other hand, breathes a sigh of relief.

“Coming, mom! I’ve gotta go, Stiles-”

“Yeah, yeah, go eat your freaking pasta - you can’t avoid me forever, McCall!” Stiles says accusingly, hanging up on Scott before he can tell him he’s being unreasonable.

Okay, he might be taking things slightly personally, but he has to admit that it stings having Scott hiding things from him. They know everything about each other! In fact, they probably know _way too much_ about each other. No wonder people keep thinking they’re dating.

Stiles sleeps eventually, but not until he’s written an extensive list, entitled ‘Things Scott Might Be Hiding From Me’:

  * _Cora is in love with me and needs Scott’s help to admit this aloud_


  * _Cora is a vampire (much more likely) and she and Scott have a hidden, centuries-old feud, in spite of the fact that Scott had no idea who she was until this morning_


  * _Deaton is the head of a cult, and Scott has just been initiated_


  * _Factoring in the weird shit about her brother’s car, is Cora just annoyed because I got to ride in the Camaro and she’s now planning on killing Scott as revenge???_


  * _Okay these are all stupid_


  * _There’s nothing going on, I’m paranoid, and Cora really did have a pet problem_



* * *

Stiles is a really great friend - he always has been, and he always will be. Honestly, Scott is lucky to have him - he lets him win when they play Mario Kart, and has only told him to shut up about Allison maybe a handful of times, which basically makes him a fucking Saint. So he decides to let this weirdness slide, which is admittedly about as far from his usual course of action as fries are from being classified a health food. At the end of the day, Scott _will_ tell him what’s going on, because he’s awful at keeping secrets.

He crumples up the list and throws it across the room.

The next few days are totally and uncomfortably uneventful. He rides the Jeep to and from school, she doesn’t break _once_ , and Scott is only a little shifty about the web of lies he is quite clearly constructing in order to keep Stiles in the dark about something.

Any charitable thoughts he’d had about Cora have gone out the window. She probably doesn’t even have any fucking pets.

The weekend comes and goes: Stiles and his dad argue about nutrition, football, and pizza toppings (Stiles secretly agreeing that vegetables have no place there, but stubbornly arguing that red onion is way better on pizza than beef - and, while you’re at it, how about cutting out some of the cheese, dad?). Roscoe gets a flat tyre on the driveway, which blows Stiles’ fucking _mind_ , but he gets her fixed up quickly and cheaply and ends up playing video games and drinking far too much Red Bull for the remainder of his free time. He’s not sure what he’s staying awake for exactly, but he’ll be ready when the time comes.

He’s so ready for the apocalypse.

Thursday comes around with earth-shattering inevitability, and Stiles gets through English, History, and a couple of hours of Math in a zombie-like state. He doesn’t even quiz Scott when he finally manages to get him alone at lunch, because he’s pretty much running on empty. He’s thinking about maybe cutting down on the Red Bull, because a couple of hours’ sleep a night probably isn’t healthy… Who knew?

Before he knows it he’s standing on the pavement outside his house, his father blessedly absent from the scene, with his best plaid shirt on. For a fucking art class. He’s definitely going to regret this, he thinks, bouncing anxiously from one foot to another and focusing intently on the brighter stars in the sky - all in lieu of thinking about the fact that he’s about to get in the car of an attractive stranger.

Again.

He feels like Bella fucking Swan.

He tries to stop picking at the hem of his shirt (a dark green affair that he’s worn maybe once because it’s a little too tight now that he’s cut down on curly fries and started doing some sort of exercise on occasion) but he can’t stop the overzealous beating of his heart, and he doesn’t even know why.

Except that, y’know, Derek is hot like burning.

But that’s fine because he deals with hot people every day and not _once_ has he embarrassed himself horribly in front of them. Except that, come to think of it, he regularly trips over in front of Danny when he takes off his shirt in the locker room, definitely used to get tongue-tied in front of Lydia (before he accepted that they would be amazing at running the world together, but would totally suck at being in a relationship), and even Cora kind of makes him nervous enough to stutter on occasion.

So of course he’s casually freaking out about his inability to remain calm in the face of burning hotness when Derek pulls up in the Camaro. He’s so engrossed in his epic plan to run away to Santa Monica to become a street musician that he doesn’t notice Derek’s there until he sounds the horn.

He drops his bag but manages not to yelp this time, which is a turn up for the books.

“Are you coming?” Derek asks gruffly through the open window, raising his murder eyebrows in an ostentatious show of facial acrobatics.

“Coming? I am. Yes. I mean, yeah - I’ll just-” Stiles flails in the general direction of his dropped bag, managing to pick it up on the second attempt, and climbs into the Camaro a moment later, his face on fire. He does not expect this to be a comfortable journey.

He’s surprised, therefore, when Derek strikes up conversation.

“Did Cora give you back your notes?” he asks, changing gears smoothly as they speed through a deserted intersection. Stiles blinks stupidly.

“Yeah, how did you-” he stops himself, dredging up memories of last week’s encounter with the man in the driver’s seat. “Oh! You told her to give them back?” Derek nods curtly, eyes fixed firmly on the road, but Stiles could swear there's a slight upturn at the corner of his mouth again. “Yeah, she gave them back - thanks! I mean, I should probably have copied them but it was a lot of hassle… And they were colour-coded, and you lose that shit in grayscale.” He’s not sure Derek really cares about his photocopying opinions, but he keeps talking anyway - and before long they’re at their destination.

* * *

Clara beams at him when he walks through the door, greeting him with a “Stiles, how lovely to see you again!” - obviously she’s reviewed his application for the class and seen that he doesn’t go by his first name (although he’s not sure he’d mind if she was the one using it). He smiles back at her, some of the tension from the ten minute car journey leeching out of his system as he finds a seat and starts to absentmindedly arrange art stuff around his desk and potting wheel. By the looks of what they’ve been given, they’re going to start decorating what they made last week, which (while it will be a disaster) doesn’t surprise him in the least.

What _does_ surprise him, however, is the fact that Derek sits at the desk next to him. He does so without commentary, and without even _looking_ at Stiles.

Stiles has no idea what to make of this. Before he can embarrass himself by asking if Derek is sizing him up for slaughter, Clara starts the class; as he suspected, he’s going to have to embarrass himself in other ways today.

His pottery last week was practically a fucking Rodin compared to what he’s about to do with a paintbrush.

Clara explains how glazing works, and about the special paints they’ll be using according to the clay they’ve been given and the kiln in which their finished products will be fired. She shows them a couple of examples (a few vases and bowls, which are basic but still amazing by anyone’s standards) and tells them to “use their imagination”. Stiles doesn’t think that his extensive knowledge of the history of male circumcision is going to help him now.

Unfortunately, his lack of artistic knowledge and inclination is not the only thing holding up his progress. The main problem is that Derek starts _talking to him_ . It’s almost like he’s a normal human being! And it shouldn’t be distracting when Derek’s gruff voice asks him about his classes, and what colleges he’s looking at, but it really _really_ is.

So he partially blames Derek when his vase comes out looking like a child of three spat up on it.

“It’s… unique,” Derek says lamely, and for once Stiles thinks he looks kind of uncomfortable. It’s clearly painful for him to even look upon Stiles’ creation.

“It looks like a tree stump covered in moss,” Stiles says miserably, before adding - “except that the tree stump has been regurgitated by some fucked-up forest creature and the moss is actually some kind of poisonous fungus. It looks like complete crap, Derek, don’t try to make me feel better about my creation of the pottery equivalent of a tumour.”

“Stiles, are you distracting my star student?” He jumps, nearly knocking over his newly-minted abomination vase, missing it by inches. He looks around wildly to find Clara, grinning widely, with her hands on her hips.

“I was just saying how I was hoping the fire in the kiln would actually just destroy this,” he says weakly, indicating the (sadly still intact) vase in front of him. “It’s kind of awful.” Clara cocks her head to the side and studies it, her eyes bright.

“It could use some work,” she says finally, that smile back on her lips. “But pottery is an art, not a science, Stiles. If you don’t make mistakes then you’re not really experiencing it the way you should. You’re on a journey, as cliched as it sounds, and nobody’s first piece of pottery is anywhere near perfect - even Derek over here has been known to make the odd mistake!” Derek rolls his eyes, but he’s actually - fuck, he’s _smiling_ and it’s devastatingly beautiful, Stiles thinks as his face heats up yet again. He actually feels his breath catch in his throat, which is more embarrassing than his shitty vase could ever be.

“I don’t want Stiles to get the wrong idea about me,” Derek says levelly, not taking his eyes off the very intricate paisley pattern he’s stencilling onto an ornate candlestick (and what the hell kind of a person needs paisley candlesticks?) - “I’ve done a lot of bad pottery jobs.” Clara laughs in the full way that she does, and ruffles Derek’s hair. And he  _lets_ her.

“My little perfectionist,” she says fondly. “Stiles - don’t be disheartened. You’ve obviously got a lot of energy, we just need a way to channel that into your art. We’ll make an artist of you yet!” And with that she swans off in a haze of silk scarves and perfume, leaving Stiles to concentrate so hard on his vase that his eyes hurt.

He just really needs to stop thinking about Derek’s smile.

* * *

“It was a _constellation_ , Derek - I know it looked more like an outbreak of measles, but the thought was there, okay?” Stiles says animatedly, his arms windmilling dangerously in the limited space of the Camaro. Derek snorts.

“Have you ever actually looked up?” Stiles rolls his eyes.

“That is so not the point - I was using artistic licence! Besides, nobody actually knows what constellations look like because nobody under the age of sixty can recognise anything but Orion,” Stiles retorts, folding his arms to avoid damaging himself, Derek, or the car. Derek is quiet for a few moments.

“I can.” Stiles turns his whole body in his seat, chest straining against the seat belt, so that he can stare at Derek.

“You stargaze? Seriously? Are you even a real person? Were you written by Stephenie Meyer?” It’s Derek’s turn to roll his eyes. “You’re kind of ridiculous, I hope you know that. Can you teach me?”

He’s working on having a brain-to-mouth filter, he really is.

Derek shrugs, the muscles in his shoulders and arms shifting exquisitely beneath the soft fabric in a way that Stiles very pointedly _does not notice_.

“I can teach you more than Orion, yes. Although it would require you to actually stop moving for five minutes.” Derek’s tone of voice hasn’t noticeably changed from their previous conversations, but there’s a softness behind the words that stops Stiles from being offended or embarrassed. Not that he can help the whole movement thing, of course (he’s on meds, not a magic fucking potion), but Derek obviously isn’t pointing it out to be cruel. This is a conversation between friends, he thinks.

Which, Stiles realises with a start, they kind of are. Baby, sapling, Jedi youngling friends, whose main connections are a pottery wheel and 20 minutes a week in a Chevy - but friends nonetheless. A warmth blossoms in his chest, just below his ribcage, and refuses to leave even after they pull up outside his house. It takes a moment for Stiles to realise that Derek is speaking to him.

“Sorry what? I was distracted by your eyebrows,” he lies quickly, trying to ignore the fact that the eyebrows in question have ended up somewhere in the region of Derek’s hairline.

“It’s a clear night. If you’ve got a coat I could show you a couple of constellations?” It could be Stiles’ imagination, but Derek almost sounds hopeful. And, even with all his years as best friend to Scott “actual puppy” McCall, he doesn’t actually have a hope in hell of standing up to the weight of Derek’s expectations; he's got jack-shit immunity, apparently.

“Yes! Cool - that’s great. I have a jacket. I mean, obviously I have a jacket, who doesn’t have a jacket? Park behind Roscoe - sorry, that’s my Jeep, don’t ask. My dad’s pulling a dangerously long shift, as usual, so he won’t be back for ages.” He’s babbling but, since that’s kind of what he does, he’s not particularly worried about Derek balking and driving off without giving him the promised astrology lesson. With this shaky faith in place, he leaves Derek to park up while he runs inside to grab the least stained jacket he owns (oh, lasagne, you cruel mistress), checking his appearance briefly in the hallway mirror before writing it off as a pointless exercise.

“See - jacket!” he says as he exits the house again, pointing unnecessarily at the red hoodie he’s pulled over his shirt. Derek is leaning against the car (and it really is unfair how much he looks like a male model, even with flecks of paint on his forearms) and he raises his eyebrows in response. This has to be the millionth time he’s done this in response to something Stiles has said, and he’s starting to worry that he’s going to end up being responsible for full facial reconstructive surgery. He’s still on his dad’s basic healthcare and it doesn’t seem like that would be covered.

“I can see that,” Derek says drily. Stiles sighs and indicates the gate leading to the back garden.

“We’re best staying round the back I think,” he says by way of explanation, before adding “after you.”

The night is dry and barely cool - Stiles could almost have foregone the hoodie, though the temperature is dropping by increments as the stars brighten up above. Derek lowers himself gracefully to the ground ( _asshole_ ) and lies on his back, palms facing the sky. Stiles flops down next to him, trying to stare at the stars instead of becoming fixated with the rise and fall of Derek’s chest in the semi-darkness.

Derek wastes no time in getting started.

“You already know Orion,” he says, pointing at the formation of stars that even Stiles is able to recognise at a glance. “Named for the mythological Greek hunter and son of Poseidon. If you can see Orion, you can usually orient yourself well enough to find a couple of other constellations, so he’s a useful one to know.” Stiles nods, his breath misting inches above his face as he follows the length of Derek’s arm with his eyes.

“Taurus,” he continues, moving his hand across the night sky and coming to rest on a jumble of stars that, to Stiles’ eyes, could literally be anything. Derek seems to feel Stiles’ mind wandering, because a second later he feels a hand on his arm. “You’ll need to be closer to me. You won’t be able to see where I’m pointing and you’ll get frustrated.”

Stiles does as he’s told, ignoring the fact that his heart is making a valiant attempt to break free of his ribcage. He shuffles over until his right arm is flush with Derek’s left, and forces himself to concentrate on the hand that’s trying to direct him towards Taurus.

There isn’t enough Adderall in the world to help him now.

* * *

By the time Derek’s talked him through Taurus, Gemini, and Ursas Major and Minor, Stiles is absolutely exhausted. Derek has low, thrumming passion that is completely irresistible, but being this close to him for this long without doing something stupid like _asking him to elope_ has completely drained him. He’s pretty sure he’s strained several muscles keeping himself from disturbing his new astronomy teacher - like he’s some kind of mythical, easily spooked wild animal - and he now needs a hot shower, a good meal, and a twelve-hour nap.

“So… The Little Dipper is the same as Ursa Minor?” Stiles says, blinking sleepily and stifling a yawn.

“Yes.”

“And the North Star - which, by the way, I lose every time there’s a plane flying overhead so I can’t ever be a sailor - is part of Ursa Minor?”

“Yes - it’s at the end of the bear’s tail,” Derek says calmly, (hopefully) ignorant to the fact that Stiles is basically getting him to repeat different parts of the lesson just so he can hear his voice for a little bit longer

 _Sad_.

Derek sits up and stretches, and Stiles closes his eyes just so he doesn’t have to watch those muscles shifting _again_ , because apparently they have a life of their fucking own and don’t care at all about Stiles’ mental health.

“It’s late,” Derek says, standing up without having to use his arms, in that way that fit and healthy people do when they want to show off. Stiles, too tired to care about putting up a front of fitness, gets clumsily to his feet using his _hands,_ thank you very much - but he still manages to do it too quickly, getting a head rush for his trouble. He stumbles, but Derek reaches out to steady him, one large, warm hand wrapping solidly around his bicep.

And then the hand is gone and Derek is practically at the gate; it’s too dark to see his face but his spine is ramrod straight and he’s radiating discomfort. Stiles clears his throat.

“I - thanks. Thank you for this.” He coughs again and rocks awkwardly back and forth on his feet, looking anywhere but at Derek. “This was really cool - I know I’m bad at sitting still and I’ve probably given myself a hernia, but it was worth it. I mean, I hope I haven’t actually got a hernia… But it was really fun. Thank you. Again.” He chances a look at Derek, who seems to have relaxed a fraction, thank god.

“You’re welcome - I’ll see you next week. I’m not above pop quizzes.” And with that fucking _gem_ of good humour, he leaves through the side gate, and Stiles is left wondering - not for the first time - if he’s passed into an alternate universe without realising.

He does however manage to step in cat poop on the way back inside (his neighbour’s cat is an asshole), so if this _is_ an alternate universe, it’s far from perfect.


	2. They Don't Teach You That At Pottery School

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek is talented, Stiles is talkative, and the Sheriff knows all.
> 
> \---
> 
> Thank you for coming! The only way I could be more pleased would be if you'd brought wine. Unless it was Chardonnay. Then you would have been asked to leave.
> 
> (I am now sleep-deprived so please be grateful for this gift I am presenting you with. Please. For the love of god.)

He and Derek fall into a routine of sorts: every Thursday they go to and from pottery class together, Stiles talking a mile a minute about nothing in particular; when they’re actually _in_ class, he does something truly sacrilegious with clay while Derek gives fucking Michelangelo a run for his money; and when they finish class, Derek starts taking Stiles’ astrological education very seriously. He takes to bringing along _charts_.

Stiles has never felt closer to Hogwarts.

“So you’re telling me that all these little twinkly ones are actually _bigger_ than the Sun? They’re just further away?” Stiles asks, trying desperately not to yawn, because Derek invariably leaves once he shows the merest hint of fatigue. Derek nods and points at one of the charts.

“The Sun’s pretty big, but it’s also pretty close - relatively speaking,” he says like the giant, rugged nerd that he is. Without warning he promptly rolls up the star chart and gets to his feet, holding a hand out to help Stiles up, who just kind of gapes stupidly at him.

“We’re _done_?” Stiles asks incredulously, taking the proffered hand anyway (because he’s not an idiot and the dude has nice hands, okay?) and allowing himself to be pulled to his feet. He ends up toe-to-toe with Derek and tries to ignore the feeling in his stomach that can only be described as ‘swooping’.

“You’re tired,” Derek states, and his voice is low. Stiles would almost go far as to say he sounds a little rough - probably too much talking, since Derek seems like the strong and silent type and probably isn’t used to stringing this many sentences together at one time, even though Stiles is an old pro by this point.

Stiles could very easily count Derek’s fucking eyelashes at this distance, and he’s acutely aware that his heart is hammering away in his chest in a way that’s oddly reminiscent of a panic attack - except that this is unequivocally _not_ a panic attack.

“Not tired,” he says stubbornly, trying (and failing) to suppress the mightiest of yawns at that very moment. Okay, yeah, he’s really tired - but Derek is inches away from him and he’s very attractive and Stiles is really _really_ enjoying the view. Derek’s mouth quirks up at one side (a sort-of smile that Stiles has decided to categorise as his Stiles Smile) and he becomes aware suddenly that they’re also still holding hands, and it’s weird how not-weird that is.

Just as Stiles is thinking that, really, it couldn’t get _that_ much weirder if he randomly kissed his friend - in a totally platonic way, obviously - Derek is stepping away, dropping his hand and once again ending up much too far away, standing ramrod straight by the sidegate.

“You’re tired - I should go. I’ll see you next week.” There’s no room for argument, yet Stiles feels the the incorrigible urge to argue.

“I’m not tired! If you’ve gotta go, that’s cool, but I was thinking - I’ve got _Making A Murderer_ queue’d up on Netflix, and way more popcorn than it’s advisable for me to eat by myself…” Stiles trails off, his heart still practising the bongos in his chest. Derek is looking at him with his head cocked to the side, but his facial expression is partially obscured by the fact that it’s _nighttime_ , and also by the fact that Derek’s expressions are generally difficult to understand. Is he angry? Is he happy? Hungry for human flesh? Who knows! So it’s a huge surprise to him when Derek actually answers.

“What’s _Making A Murderer_?”

“Oh, dude, you have to stay now!” Stiles breathes, striding back into Derek’s space and grabbing both of his arms. “You haven’t seen _Making A Murderer_?! We need to change that immediately. Come inside right now or my dad will arrest you for crimes against humanity - I mean, probably. He’s never actually arrested anyone on my say-so before. Otherwise Mr Harris would be in jail.”

“And who’s Mr Harris?” Derek says, sounding amused in spite of himself as he allows Stiles to manhandle him inside the house.

“Mr Harris is irrelevant,” Stiles says dismissively, waving a vague hand in the air before depositing an unresisting Derek on the couch and flopping down next to him. “You are about to have the ride of your goddamn life - popcorn comes after episode one, curly fries come after episode two. Okay?” And suddenly he’s nervous for no reason at all, because apparently it means a lot to him that this stargazing, candlestick-making _nerd_ (pot-kettle-black) wants to be here. And if he doesn’t want to be here, there’s a huge tub of Rocky Road ice cream in the freezer for him to drown his sorrows.

That particular cliche is completely genderless, thank _you_.

Because of his internal freak-out, he almost misses Derek pulling off his trainers and leaning back into the sofa cushions like he’s totally on-board with this plan.

“Sounds good.”

 _Because Derek_ is _totally on-board with this plan._ Unsurprisingly, this doesn’t actually stop Stiles freaking out, because somewhere in his head there are some cogs that never go to sleep, and right now they’re turning and coming up with the following piece of information:

He just invited Derek Hale into his parent-free home for Netflix and chill.

 

* * *

 

Stiles loves _Making A Murderer_ \- he really does. He’s the son of a cop, a perpetual rule bender (much less messy than rule breaking), and an avid reader of true crime.

Like, actual novels, not just whatever case files he can wheedle out of his dad.

This viewing - which is probably his third or fourth - turns out to be absolutely impossible, even though he’s really trying to concentrate. Apparently being in close proximity to Derek without the constant stream of star knowledge, or the soothing babble of the pottery classroom gives Stiles way too much time to catalogue every little thing about the guy. By the end of episode one, he realises as he collects the promised popcorn from the kitchen, he has quite a comprehensive list.

  * Confirmed nerd - made several Star Wars references during first viewing, which kind of pulled the rug out from under him
  * Tucks his feet under himself without realising he’s doing it, which is unfairly adorable
  * Furrows his brow in concentration 99.9% of the time he’s watching something, based on current evidence. More trials will be scheduled to test this hypothesis
  * Appears unaffected by Stiles’ babbling during intense moments, or his explanation of things that have happened five seconds previously
  * Kind of has bunny teeth? Also adorable
  * Stubble looks soft, but probably isn’t - trials pending
  * Hair looks even softer, currently unable to verify if this is the case
  * Has a really nice mouth---



Which is where Stiles stops writing his mental list, looking away from Derek whenever he absentmindedly takes a handful of popcorn so that he doesn’t get tricked into looking at his mouth some more.

Confusing gay thoughts about your friends have no place in a _Making A Murderer_ viewing, god damn it.

Halfway through episode two, Stiles takes another breather in the kitchen, putting a ridiculous serving of curly fries into the oven and setting a timer. He clutches the edge of the counter and takes a couple of deep breaths, squeezing his eyes shut. He really wants to stop objectifying Derek - he’s actually a super nice guy and he’s lucky to have him as a friend! He kind of hates that it seems to be absolutely impossible _not_ to want to jump him.

“You okay?” Derek asks, eyebrow raised as Stiles walks back into the room, hands shoved deep into his pockets to stop him from touching Derek’s hair.

“Fine!” he lies brightly, collapsing awkwardly into the space he’d vacated a few moments previously. He could swear there’s less space there now, which can’t be right because Derek doesn’t look like he’s moved an inch. “I’m just wondering why there’s nowhere round here that will just _deliver_ curly fries to me. I would pay good money for that service!”

And here’s where things get weird. Derek looks disbelieving, which isn’t odd in and of itself; it’s actually a perfectly normal response to most things Stiles says, so y’know, fair enough. The weird thing is that Stiles definitely sees Derek’s eyes flick towards his chest - specifically the spot where he knows his heart is - before meeting his eyes. Like he can…

And there it is - the realisation of the obvious, hitting Stiles between the eyes with the force of a freight train.

The Hales are werewolves.

 

* * *

 

Stiles knows he’s freaking out more than the situation really warrants, but he’s absolutely mortified. His best friend is a werewolf, okay? He knows what their sense of smell is like and he’s a fucking teenage boy - it’s a bad combination.

He manages to eat curly fries like a normal human being and get Derek out of the house by telling him he’s got some homework to do (and it doesn’t register as a lie because it’s not like calling Scott in a panic and doing hours of research on werewolf senses is homework, but it’s not _not_ homework either), and then he immediately goes to his room. He has his phone out of his pocket and is pressing the speed dial for Scott before Derek’s even pulled out of the driveway.

“Stiles, buddy! Everything okay? It’s pretty late,” Scott answers, sounding as adorably sleepy as he always does any time after 7pm. Becoming a werewolf may have given Scott superpowers but he still gets _super sleepy_.

“The Hales are werewolves and you fucking _knew_!”

Scott is silent but for his breathing for a long moment. Stiles tries to calm the rapid beating of his heart, distantly aware that Derek might think he’s being _murdered_ if he hears it, and come running back into the house or something, only to see him freaking out about his entire life.

Because friends don’t let friends get murdered.

Even if that friend is nearly constantly aroused around you and you can fucking _smell it_.

Christ. This is a nightmare.

Scott sighs, and Stiles has actually already forgiven him before he’s started talking because that simple exhalation of air just sounds so… _apologetic_.

“Cora asked me not to - it’s her family’s secret, not mine, and they’ve been targeted by hunters before… They nearly died in a house fire last year because of some woman who tried to use Derek to get to them all. They’re a little cautious about who they tell. Cora only told me so I wouldn’t tell you once I sniffed it out, just in case.” He sounds hopelessly sorry, even though Stiles 100% knows it’s not at all his fault. He huffs out a breath.

“Okay, so I’m not actually mad at you, but I do have questions.”

“Shoot,” Scott says, sounding a little less tired but much more resigned.

“Can you smell horniness on someone? Asking for a friend.” Scott chokes on what is probably air on the other end of the phone.

“Stiles! What the - why do you need to know that? Actually, please don’t tell me. And yeah I guess. Sort of?” It’s Scott’s turn to sigh again. “I think it’s different for me. The Hales are born werewolves, and I was only bitten. I get ideas of stuff, I guess? Scents are more complicated than that.”

“Okay so what do I smell like?”

“You’ve literally asked me this a hundred times, and I already told you - you smell mostly just sort of… clean? Like, I guess you have a good shower routine? I don’t know, dude, I try not to actively smell you. It’d be too weird.” Stiles thinks about whether or not he’d find Scott sniffing him all the time just a little invasive, and wrinkles his nose at the idea.

“Point taken. Okay so I told the tiniest of lies to Derek - mostly to cover up the huge gay crisis he makes me have on a daily basis - and I saw the second he heard the uptick in my heart and - are you choking again, Scott?”

Ten minutes and the most undramatic coming-out ever later, Scott eventually stops spluttering.

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you were bi,” he says morosely, which makes Stiles feel like he’s kicked a puppy.

“It was all just theory until Derek fucking Hale swanned into my life looking like an angry male model! With his stubble and his stupid tight shirts and his murder eyebrows.”

“Okay now I’m worried,” Scott says with a smile in his voice. “Murder eyebrows? Seriously?” Stiles snorts.

“I kind of want to lick them.”

“Dude, gross! Way too much information.”

“Like I haven’t heard every sordid detail of your relationship with Allison,” Stiles counters - and Scott does some more indignant spluttering but he can’t actually argue because Stiles is _so right_ . “Anyway, to summarise: I’m gay for Derek Hale - even though we’re just friends, which is _fine_ \- and he’s a werewolf but he doesn’t know that I know, and I kind of just want to climb him like a tree whenever I see him. It’s a problem.” He can practically hear the cogs turning in Scott’s brain as the silence lengthens between them following this proclamation. Then he coughs.

“Have you considered that he might want to… oh man, I don’t wanna use the same phrase but - Derek might also want to climb _you_?” Stiles lets out a disparaging bark of laughter.

“That’s very cute and noble of you, but I’m aware of my appeal, Scott. Derek is built like a Greek god, and I have actually had people walk into me with their carts at the grocery store because they didn’t see me. _I’m basically invisible_.” Scott huffs angrily.

“Stop putting yourself down, bro! If I liked guys I would totally be into you - you know, if we weren’t basically brothers,” he says defiantly, and Stiles can’t help but feel a bubble of affection swelling in his chest.

“Thanks Scotty,” he says fondly, grinning widely down the phone. “In a parallel universe somewhere I’m sure we’re married with five adorable kids.”

“Dude, we so are!”

The conversation ends up a little derailed after that, moving onto their usual discussions on video games, Batman, and what colour Allison’s eyes could best be described as (Scott favours ‘smokey topaz’ because he’s actually researched this shit apparently, while Stiles thinks they’re basically just a warm brown). Eventually Scott yawns so loudly and for so long that Stiles realises it’s the middle of the night - and they both go to bed.

Where Stiles absolutely does not jerk off thinking about Derek’s arms.

 

* * *

 

Things go basically back to normal after that conversation. Stiles tries not to lie too much to Derek (though he can still tell whenever Derek’s caught him in a fib, which is awkward and embarrassing), and he continues to pine from afar. He ignores every instinct he has re: googling wolves and scent because, for once in his life, he’d actually rather not know. They stargaze, finish _Making A Murderer_ , and so on.

It’s totally normal, right up until it isn’t any more.

 

* * *

 

“Scott, I don’t think I can do this. I swear to God all I have done on this course is make increasingly terrible vases and stare longingly at Derek while he sculpts, like, ceramic juicers or whatever.” Scott is nodding absentmindedly but sympathetically while he pulls books out of his locker, so Stiles isn’t sure he’s actually listening. He continues regardless, opening his own locker and cocking his head to the side in thought. “Do you think I’ll be allowed to do my critique on a topic I actually know something about, rather than pottery?”

Stiles’ first round of pottery classes is nearly up - Clara had explained at their last meeting that she splits them up into ‘courses’, so that they essentially have an end-of-term project to do. Stiles would be totally fine with this, except that he’s going to have to give a _speech_ about his project, and he’s already sure that it’s going to be an absolute disaster.

Scott, oblivious to his best friend’s very serious and very real problems ( _thank you_ ), rolls his eyes.

“No, man, you can’t keep writing irrelevant essays on circumcision - I don’t think you’ll get away with that twice.” And Scott’s right of course, but the problem is that-

“Derek’s already written his speech,” Stiles says dully, closing his locker and pressing his forehead to the cool metal. “I bet he’s going to sound all eloquent and intelligent, whereas I had to ask him what a ceramic juicer even _was_.” Scott cocks his head to the side.

“What _is_ a ceramic juicer?”

“Oh, you use it to juice lemons and stuff. It catches the juice? It’s actually pretty useful for lemonade I guess.”

“Oh! That’s cool - good for summer.”

“Yeah, no - wait, this is totally irrelevant,” Stiles says, hoisting his bag back onto his shoulder and following Scott through the waning crowds to their first class. “Ceramic juicers are not the reason I stayed up last night researching how to fool people into believing that you’re actually competent, instead of a mess of teenage hormones and angst.” Scott raises his eyebrows.

“That’s a pretty long search term.”

“Yeah, I didn’t have much luck with that first one - but anyway, listen: the point is that I don’t know what to do and you need to help me.” They sit down in Econ and Scott turns in his seat to face Stiles.

“Speak to Derek,” he says simply, like it’s _that easy_.

Except, actually… They’re friends. They are totally bros now - his huge crush notwithstanding - and so it should be normal and natural for him to go to Derek for help regarding a class they take together.

So he does.

 

* * *

 

“Okay, I’ll come over tonight, if you’re free. I’ve got a family dinner but I can be there around eight?” Screw Scott, Derek is Stiles’ new favourite person. Stiles lets out a relieved sigh down the phone.

“Have I ever told you you’re amazing? And also that your pottery skills are slightly terrifying?”

“I don’t see how that’s relevant, but thank you - I think,” Derek replies, sounding amused in spite of the sarcastic drawl of his words. “See you at eight.” Stiles says an elated goodbye and hangs up, flopping down onto his bed and starfishing happily with his eyes closed. It’s Friday night, his dad isn’t on shift for once, he doesn’t have any homework, and Derek is going to come over and help him with his project.

His eyes fly open.

Shit. His dad isn’t on duty tonight. He can hear the Sheriff clattering around the kitchen, probably finding some new and ingenious way of hiding red meat in a vegetable dish, and Stiles is suddenly trying very hard not to panic - because Derek and his dad haven’t actually… met. He’s mentioned Derek a few times (it was unavoidable really, since Stiles is casually in love with the guy), but he’s never given his dad any concrete details. Or invited Derek in when his dad’s there. Or shown his dad any photos (because yes, he’s managed to get a couple of selfies with the grumpy asshole and they are a fucking gift).

It’s not that he’s ever tried to stop them meeting, it’s just that his dad works a crazy number of hours a week and, honestly, it just hasn’t been a priority. The problem is that Derek is 22, and his dad may have some _opinions_ about Stiles being friends with an older man who looks like his interests include motorcycles, alcohol, and murder. _Stiles_ knows differently (Derek has been quite clear that he thinks beer tastes like sadness, and in spite of his tendencies to turn into a wild animal at will, he’s not exactly the killing type), but his dad might not be so willing to listen to reason.

Stiles jumps out of bed and tiptoes downstairs - not because he’s scared of this conversation or anything, because obviously he’s a master of linguistics _thanks_ , but because he’s hoping to catch his dad red handed with a steak.

Which he does.

“Dad! A fucking T-bone? I can’t even begin to tell you how off-limits that is!” The Sheriff spins around, still holding the steak, eyes wild.

“Language…?” he tries, somewhat weakly. Stiles narrows his eyes and his dad sighs, placing the steak back in its packaging and turning to wash his hands in the sink. “And here I was thinking I was the parent in this household. If I can’t have what I want, you’re making dinner, son.” Stiles grins and moves over to the counter, opening the fridge and pulling out the ingredients for ratatouille.

“Honestly, Mrs Whittaker shouldn’t even be selling you that stuff - I’ll have to have a word with her.”

“You leave that poor woman alone,” the Sheriff warns, pointing a finger at his son. “You can’t intimidate every vendor in this town on your crusade to deny me of one of the truest of life’s joys.” Stiles snorts.

“Okay, first off - _I_ am the truest of life’s joys, and you are lucky to have me. And second - I totally can, and I will. Mrs Whittaker lives above the shop, right?” His dad huffs out a laugh and hip-checks him out of the way so he can get to the fridge. He pulls out two beers, handing one to Stiles, and rummages through the cutlery drawer for a bottle opener.

Stiles stares at the beer in his hand.

“Dad,” he says slowly, not resisting as the Sheriff leans over and removes the cap with a practised ‘snick’, and a resulting hiss of pressurised air. “You know I’m eighteen next month and not twenty-one, right?” His dad raises his eyebrows and leans back against the counter.

“Son, I’m not an idiot. You’ll be finishing school soon and going off to college, and there will be more alcohol than there will be essays. The least I can do to make sure you’re ready for the onslaught is show you that it isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.” Stiles grins and accepts the toast when the Sheriff clinks their bottles together.

“You know, you’re way too reasonable sometimes. It’s off-putting,” he says, taking a swig of beer and putting it carefully on the counter so he can get back to chopping vegetables. His dad snorts but doesn’t respond, and they lapse into comfortable silence as Stiles prepares dinner.

After ten minutes or so of chopping, stirring, and the odd comment from his father (usually along the lines of “I’ve heard steak really improves the flavour of a ratatouille”), Stiles clears his throat.

“So there’s a project we have to present to our pottery class this weekend, and Derek’s coming over later to help me write my speech. We won’t bother you while you’re watching the game, just thought I’d give you a heads-up.” There’s a beat of silence and Stiles can practically hear the cogs turning in his dad’s head.

“I take it from the tension in your shoulders that I’m not going to approve of Derek,” he says resignedly, and Stiles grins because _he knows that tone of voice_. That’s the tone of voice that says he’s already won.

“I’ll give it to you straight,” he says, turning around and pointing the tomato-sauce-drenched wooden spoon at the Sheriff. “Derek is 22, he only moved back recently having finished college, he drives a very cool car, and he looks a little bit like he murders for fun. But he’s actually into stargazing, pottery, and history. He’s basically a huge nerd.” The Sheriff looks at him wearily for a second before rolling his eyes to the heavens and taking a long pull on his beer.

“I expect your door to stay open, and know that these walls aren’t thin.” Stiles visibly recoils.

“Whoa! Dad - he’s not- I mean, _we’re_ not…!” He flails a little, a splash of tomato sauce landing on the tiled floor below. “He’s a guy! I mean, he’s obviously attractive and I have _eyes,_ but he’s just a friend! Also I’m not gay - that is a key point here. Totally 100% straight, even if people like Derek actually exist on this plane for some reason.” There’s a beat of silence, in which the Sheriff simply raises his eyebrows.

Stiles breaks first.

“Yes, fine, the door will stay open and _thank you_ for ruining my coming out speech by the way - there were gonna be streamers and everything! I was even considering commissioning a cake. You know those grossly offensive gender reveal cakes they have at baby showers? It would’ve been like that, except when you cut into it it would have just said ‘Surprise! I’m not picky’ in bubble writing.” John chuckles and claps his son on the back.

“Stiles, I’ve gotta say I’m almost looking forward to meeting the guy who’s brought you to your senses. I’ve always known your fascination with Batman was a little unusual.” Stiles rolls his eyes (like father, like son) and turns back to the stove, taking a sip of beer before stirring the pot again.

Stiles had, admittedly, been expecting this to be harder. But his dad is too much like him; the Stilinskis can be incredibly stubborn and sometimes brash, but are often oddly perceptive. He lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

“Oh, by the way,” he says, his voice softer now, ”did I mention that Clara Brice runs the class? She used to do art stuff with mom… She totally adores Derek. I reckon she’s a pretty good judge of character.” John’s silence is more loaded now, and stretches on as Stiles busies himself with the rice (brown, obviously), putting the lid on the ratatouille and turning the heat down to low. He turns, leaning back against the counter, and crosses his arms as best he can whilst keeping hold of his beer. The Sheriff looks like he might have, at some point this evening, had watery eyes, but he’s managed to get it under control and Stiles is absolutely not going to point it out.

“Well then, kid - he’s probably all right.” They share a wobbly smile in the quiet of the kitchen, the only sounds their breathing, the tick of the stove, and the perpetual, offbeat dripping of the tap.

 

* * *

 

Derek arrives at five to eight, which is so incredibly like him that for some reason it makes butterflies dance in Stiles’ stomach. Which is ridiculous, because now he’s into punctuality? He might actually have to lay off Scott for a while, since he’s obviously just as disgusting as his best bro when he’s into someone.

Derek smiles and the butterflies open up a circus complete with backflips, a high-wire, and probably an elephant on a unicycle. He’s so fucked it’s unreal.

“You are my favourite person in the world,” Stiles breathes, ignoring the acrobatics in his stomach and ushering Derek into the house. “I have absolutely nothing to say about pottery, except that I am very bad at it - I might just apologise individually to everyone in that class for having to watch me work instead of doing a proper presentation. ‘Sorry you have to watch my spastic hands mutilating clay once a week’ - think Clara will let that one slide?” Ah, babbling; he’s at home here. The tips of Derek’s ears have gone pink, which - huh. Weird.

“I don’t think anybody’s watching you mutilate anything with your hands,” Derek says roughly, putting down his bag and shrugging off his ever-present leather jacket, placing the latter with great care on a hook by the door. He then squats down to untie his boots and Stiles really could have gone his whole life without the image of Derek on his knees-

“Thought I heard the door - you must be Derek.” Stiles has never been happier to see his dad, and he leaps to introduce the two while Derek slowly gets to his feet, having placed his boots carefully side by side on the rack. The domesticity of it all is painfully heartwarming.

“Yes! This is Derek - obviously - and Derek, this is my dad. If he threatens to shoot you, don’t worry about it, it’s a thing that he does to establish dominance. I saw it on a programme about lions.” The Sheriff shakes his head and cuffs Stiles around the ear - it is _not_ gentle. “Ow,” Stiles says pointedly, stepping back and rubbing his ear. “You’re obviously the dominant lion, jeez dad.”

“As I’m sure you’ll know by now, this is not the weirdest way he could have greeted a guest,” John says with a wry smile, holding out a hand to Derek, who takes it in a firm handshake.

“He made me read his essay on the history of male circumcision,” Derek says solemnly, but there’s that tick in the corner of his mouth that says he’s amused, and Stiles doesn’t miss it. Mostly because he’s staring at Derek’s mouth, but that’s not important. John is nodding and releasing Derek’s hand with a sigh.

“If he was half as focused on his actual schoolwork as he was on that particular topic, I’d get a lot more sleep at night.” Derek actually huffs out a laugh at that and Stiles tries not to watch the way the muscles in his arms move as he slings his bag back onto his shoulder and shoves his hands into his jeans pockets - he fails miserably.

“If you’re finished ridiculing my frankly _awesome_ ideas, Derek and I need to go and construct a speech so devastatingly beautiful that every person in that room cries.”

“Son, you might be a bit of a sociopath.”

“I accept your criticism readily.”

Once he’s got Derek in his room, he busies himself opening up his laptop and shoving his school work off the bed to make room for his visitor; he has one chair and he is damn well going to sit on it. The alternative is sitting in a place where he regularly jerks off.

On second thoughts... He sits down promptly on the bed. Having your hot werewolf friend sit on the bed where you may have (accidentally and involuntarily) had sexy thoughts about them is the worst idea in the world.

Derek, thankfully, takes the chair.

“You wanted help?” Derek asks, succinctly, and then he takes out what is unmistakably _a glasses case_ from his bag. Derek is going to be in his room, being all helpful and intelligent and unfairly beautiful, all while wearing glasses; Stiles is going to die, and he deserves it for being such a massive pervert (and for breaking one of Mrs McCall’s vases when he was seven and blaming it on Scott - but that’s by the by).

Apparently oblivious to Stiles’ internal screaming, Derek snaps open his glasses case and slips a pair of sleek, square-framed glasses onto his face - and it’s not like Stiles hasn’t had librarian fantasies before (he is an equal-opportunities masturbator and there are very few professions he has not sexualised in his time) but he has a feeling they are now going to exclusively feature Derek.

_(I’ve reshelved these books all wrong, Mr Hale - what are you going to do with me now? I’m talking on the silent floor, I’ve been BAD)_

He is still trying to kid himself that some of his sexual fantasies remain Derek-free, but it’s _all lies_.

“Yes,” Stiles says eloquently, nodding and swallowing dryly. “Help is something I need. I have absolutely nothing good to say about the clay monstrosities I have created, so…” He shrugs, trying to concentrate on the relatively low-level thrum of arousal he gets from staring at Derek’s stubble - which he’s used to - instead of the violent stab of wanting to climb _all over his stupid body_ when he glances up at those fucking glasses. Derek gives a rare smile and pulls out a notebook and pen.

“You never stop talking. How is this difficult for you?” Stiles snorts and rolls his eyes.

“If Clara would let me write about the Dancing Plague of 1518, I would have this in the _bag_ , my friend.” It’s Derek’s turn to roll his eyes.

“Unless you can somehow create a clay-based diorama of that by tomorrow, I’d set your sights a little lower,” he says, obviously trying to sound more exasperated than amused and failing miserably. Stiles’ heart swells slightly because this beautiful, rugged nerd _totally_ likes him, even against his better judgment. (He’s kind of used to that caveat.)

He’s feeling seriously relaxed for the first time since he invited Derek over earlier, which is what he blames for the next thing that comes out of his mouth.

“So are werewolves just better at pottery or is that all you?”

Derek freezes.

There’s a beat of silence.

_Stiles instigates instant damage-control._

“Okay so my best friend is a werewolf, you don’t need to freak out about this at all - and _oh god that’s what people say when they’re secretly racist isn’t it_ ? Okay ignore that part but seriously Scotty’s been one for years now and I’m totally cool with it but you have - you have tells, dude, okay? Like, if you hear me lying, you need to not instantly stare at my chest like it’s offending you? Sure, lying isn’t an attractive trait but sometimes I don’t want people to know that I’ve eaten three portions of curly fries to myself and you could at least _pretend_ like you believe me.” For once, Stiles’ complete inability to be chill has saved him, because Derek has relaxed in his desk chair and that uptick at the corner of his mouth is back.

“Where do you even put three portions of curly fries?” Stiles pulls up his shirt and pokes his stomach, which is slightly more defined than it was when he first went out for lacrosse, but is woefully inadequate when compared with Derek’s unfair wolfie advantage.

“I know right? Who’d have thought these rock hard abs had such unplumbed depths?” He lets the hem of his shirt drop and Derek makes a weird noise that has Stiles looking up instantly, eyebrows furrowed. He looks basically normal, but he’s looking anywhere but at Stiles, the tips of his ears slightly pink.

“Anyway,” Stiles says slowly, filing that unfathomable reaction away for future reference and coughing awkwardly. “You’re a werewolf, it’s cool, your sister is terrifying - I think we’ve covered the basics. Now _please_ just tell me what to write or I might dive headfirst off the roof of the history block tomorrow morning.” Derek rolls his eyes.

“I haven’t even admitted to anything,” he says somewhat lamely, opening the notebook to the first clean page and uncapping his pen. He looks back at Stiles and cocks his head to the side, considering. “But my sister is pretty terrifying.”

 

* * *

 

The speech gets done and the night ends with Derek showing Stiles his claws after the younger man refused to shut up about it, which is basically how things tend to go for Stiles. He either wins or he gets punched in the face.

“So much cooler than Scott’s,” Stiles says, nodding solemnly as he leads Derek back downstairs, the completed speech folded up and tucked into the back pocket of his jeans. “His are wimpy by comparison. He probably files them. Oh my god, what if he lets his _girlfriend_ file them? As like, a bonding exercise? I have to text him immediately.” Derek snorts as he slips his feet back into his boots and grabs his leather jacket from its hook.

“You’re ridiculous,” he says simply, putting his jacket back on and shouldering his bag once more. He raises his voice slightly over the hum of the television in the living room. “It was nice to meet you, Sheriff.”

“You too, son - don’t let him lead you astray! I know what my boy’s like.”

“Yes, sir. Wouldn’t dream of it.” Stiles groans but keeps his voice low enough that his dad won’t hear.

“You guys are terrible - I changed my mind, you have been demoted from ‘favourite person in the world’ to ‘second favourite shapeshifter’. And I only know two.” Derek punches him gently in the arm, in a way that suggests it was gentle by choice.

“Lie.”

“Only because I technically know Cora too, so actually I know three. Urgh, I hate that you have a built-in lie detector,” Stiles huffs, opening the door to push Derek outside with minimal force. “I’m a teenage boy, let me have some secrets.” ( _Like the one where I want you to fuck me senseless over my desk_ , he thinks, but does not say; his brain-to-mouth filter is really coming along these days.)

“The great thing about secrets is that you don’t have to lie if you just shut up about them,” Derek says pointedly, but without heat. Stiles puts a hand over his heart and gasps in mock horror.

“Derek, that was _dangerously_ close to a joke. If you’re not careful, people will start to think you’re approachable, and you’d completely lose the edge afforded to you by your judgey murder brows!” Derek furrows said eyebrows.

“I do not have murder brows.”

“You kinda do, dude.”

“Stop calling me dude.”

“I call it as I see it - I have never met a more dude-worthy dude. Now get off my porch or Mrs Guthrie from next door is definitely going to try and feed you meatloaf, and you _really don’t want that_.”

Seriously - Mrs Guthrie’s meatloaf is the stuff of legends. Stiles is pretty sure she’s the country’s last line of defence against invasion; it’s biological warfare, plain and simple.

Derek huffs what could be a laugh and slinks off to the Camaro, which Stiles has only recently realised is completely unnecessary; he could just _run_ everywhere. The car is definitely part of #A Look.

(And yes, Stiles definitely hashtagged and capitalised that in his head, because social media is a dark and dangerous thing that has embedded itself wholly and irretrievably into his brain.)

Stiles knocks out a sloppy salute as Derek pulls off the driveway, then shuts the door, making his way to the living room to say goodnight to his dad. The sheriff looks up at him with an honest-to-god smirk on his face and Stiles points a single, solitary finger at him.

“Not a word. I am going to bed and we are never going to speak of my embarrassing crush on a leather jacket-wearing nerd whose face was quite possibly chiselled from literal marble.” His dad throws his hands in the air, face trying for innocent.

“I said nothing!”

“Your face says it all, dad.” The sheriff shrugs, a smile playing about his lips. He leans forward to grab his beer then settles back into the sofa cushions, letting out a contented sigh.

“Well, son… he seems nice.” Stiles blinks, then smiles slowly.

“He really is.”

 

* * *

 

Stiles tugs awkwardly at the tie currently choking him into submission and tries not to let the panic set in; not that panic is an alien feeling to him or anything, but he has a quota all right, and he’s 100% going to need his reserves for later when he’s expected to give a _motherfucking speech._ He considers talking to be an Olympic sport, but one which he would prefer not to do in front of hundreds of people (which does not, admittedly, fit well with the whole idea of the Olympics). _I could probably hang myself with this,_ he thinks idly, giving the tie another futile tug before giving up entirely.

His vision isn’t actively swimming just yet, so he takes one last critical look at his own reflection, taking stock of the damage. His pants (which are way too tight - _thanks Lydia_ ) are charcoal, which he’s always kind of hated in a low-key way - it’s definitely the most pretentious-sounding of the 50 available shades of grey. He’d argued his way out of having to wear a jacket - a miniscule victory in the grand scheme of things, but one he’ll grab with both hands - but had been bullied into a matching waistcoat, which is buttoned firmly over a forest green shirt. Once again, forest green is the most pretentious shade available on the spectrum - he longs to be wearing grey and green but it’s never that fucking straightforward with Lydia.

He’d happily agreed to a pair of black brogues, because those at least were super cool, and kind of made him feel slightly more like James Bond and slightly _less_ like an awkward teenager in an uncomfortable suit.

He walks, somewhat awkwardly due to the unusual tightness of his pants, back to his bedroom, where Derek is sitting on his bed with an iPad on his lap. He’s probably creating more star charts or writing a ground-breaking thesis on the history of American art, or whatever it is that gives beautiful nerds that cute crease between their eyebrows. Said nerd is wearing jeans, and Stiles feels a stab of annoyance that he’s managed to wriggle out of wearing a suit - he then has to tamp down on a wave of arousal upon imagining what Derek would look like in a suit, because _these pants will hide nothing_.

“Hey, Derek,” he says, slipping into the usual breezy tone of voice he saves just for these self-deprecating moments. They are perhaps more frequent than he’d care to admit. Derek looks up and - yep, that was definitely an eye flash. He’s doing a stand-up job of pretending to be a normal human.

Maybe Stiles looks like a bunny? He steams on, doing a twirl and managing not to fall over.

“Whaddya think - totally unnatural and a sin against common decency, or dangerously sensual and entirely edible?” He’s joking, of course, but Derek considers the question for far too long, head cocked to the side, his eyebrows furrowed in a completely unreadable expression. After an agonising moment, he straightens up.

“Edible,” he says simply, and immediately goes back to the iPad - like the asshole doesn’t know that he’s just said the most aggravating and impossible thing in the history of conversation.

“What,” Stiles says, his voice slightly croakier than he’s likely to admit later. Derek looks up again, eyebrows raised.

“Are you allergic to question marks?” he quips, locking the iPad and placing it carefully on the bed next to him. Stiles rolls his eyes but the growing tension in the room doesn’t let up. And it’s not new, sure, but it feels different, and Stiles is having to concentrate harder than normal on remembering to breathe.

“Seriously, Derek - what the hell? You can’t just say shit like that, like it’s - _normal_ or something. You’re meant to tell me I look like a dork and then I hurt my hand when I punch you in the arm, and then we go and eat cereal out the box before we leave because we always forget to plan dinner around my internal crises and we have to leave in like ten minutes.” He definitely sounds a little panicked now but he can’t help it.

“I don’t think it’s my fault you look good,” Derek says drily, looking a little frustrated for reasons Stiles can’t fathom. “Also - you asked.” Stiles gapes at him.

“I look _good_?”

“Did you get a concussion in the bathroom?” Derek bites back, standing up and folding his arms across his stupidly broad chest as though in defence.

“I’m just saying - it’s just not statistically likely. You know it’s basically impossible to look good when I’m within a five mile radius of you, right? You should probably take back the ‘edible’ comment because I can’t think of an equivalent for you that doesn’t involve actual cannibalism.” Derek actually looks more annoyed now, which Stiles hadn’t been sure was possible. He takes a couple of steps towards Stiles, arms now uncrossed, but his fists are clenched by his sides and they’re almost toe-to-toe.

“You have no fucking idea what you look like, do you?” Derek’s voice is low and dangerous, and Stiles is always low-key aroused when he’s anywhere near Derek anyway, but he’s becoming genuinely worried that these pants are not fit for purpose. He swallows.

“Kinda skinny, annoyingly jumpy, capable of reflecting the power of the sun’s rays with my skin-” He doesn’t get to finish what would probably have been an increasingly insulting list of his own physical defects, because suddenly Derek is _actually growling_ and has crowded him up against his closed bedroom door. And he may be about to die but Jesus _fuck_ Stiles has never been this turned on in his entire adult life.

“You,” Derek says, the growl still in full force, “are the most aggravating person I’ve ever met in my life.” Stiles swallows and tries desperately to think of unsexy things - like Mr Harris naked and Scott jerking it - but he’s definitely too far gone now.

“You are not the first person to say that to me,” he says somewhat weakly, tilting his chin up slightly to meet Derek’s eyes.

Which, as it turns out, is a mistake - because Derek’s eyes are almost black, the pupils completely blown, and that look strips away the last shreds of dignity and self-preservation Stiles has left as he lets out a strangled sort of groan, surging forward and kissing Derek like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do - mainly because it very well might be. It’s possible Stiles is going to end up getting punched in the face as a result of this, but at the moment he can’t bring himself to care.

And then Derek is making this noise in his throat and _kissing him back_ , and Stiles might actually die anyway because this is the best thing that’s ever happened to him and the shock could be fatal. Derek’s mouth is hot and wet and even though that seems like a pretty standard description, the kiss is indescribably good - Stiles has limited experience of kisses, but he can’t imagine it gets much better than this. Derek grazes his bottom lip with sharp teeth and Stiles lets out a shuddering breath, allowing Derek to slide their tongues together and now the kiss is _dirty_ , and Stiles is painfully hard in his all-too-constricting, pretentious charcoal pants. Strong hands slide over his ass and grip his thighs, lifting him with seemingly no effort at all - as though this hasn’t featured in _every single one_ of Stiles’ Derek-themed fantasies. Now that he’s living in one of them, it’s all too easy to wrap his legs around Derek’s waist, the movement bringing them closer together - and holy hell, Derek is hard, and if that isn’t the most gratifying thing _ever_ Stiles doesn’t know what is.

“Derek,” he pants, only vaguely aware of how needy he sounds as Derek moves from his mouth to press blistering hot kisses down his neck, all tinged with sharp teeth; he growls unhappily in his throat at finding his path blocked by Stiles’ tie. “Derek - okay wow that’s good - while this is definitely the best thing that’s ever happened to me in my life - Jesus _fuck_ do that again - we have to leave in five minutes and I’m going to need at least twice that long to will this boner away,” Stiles finishes breathily, his fingers clenching and unclenching without thought in Derek’s hair as he does unspeakable things to Stiles’ neck (and he might have to invest in some scarves like… yesterday). Derek looks up, frowning.

“Or I could blow you.” Stiles nearly chokes.

“I mean, yes - yeah, you could definitely do that. That is also an option? If you want to do that? Oh god, please tell me you want to do that.” Derek does that lip quirk of his (which should _not_ be attractive) before wordlessly disentangling Stiles’ legs from his waist and lowering him to the ground - and yes, it is admittedly more difficult to stand up than Stiles would have expected, but he only wobbles a little bit. A few seconds later Derek is on his knees, hands on Stiles’ hips, and he has to squeeze his eyes shut to stop that image from causing an instant meltdown in his over-tight pants. When he opens them again, Derek is looking up at him, eyes still blown and his mouth curved into a smile - a real smile, that makes Stiles’ knees actually _literally_ buckle, and he slides an inch down the door before Derek’s hands tighten, keeping him in place.

Which would be mortifying, except that Derek’s smile has turned almost predatory, and that’s enough to make him forget about everything - including the fact that he should probably be at least a little embarrassed by the fact that he’s the closest he’s ever been to _literally fainting_.

“Are you going to be able to stay upright for this?” Derek asks mildly, his voice almost completely normal - which is impressive because he’s now unbuttoning Stiles’ pants and sliding the dark fabric down past his thighs, and apparently this is as normal as a discussion on the weather. As they pool around his ankles, Stiles really could not be more glad that he’s not wearing his Batman boxers.

“Believe me, standing to attention is _not_ going to be my main failing here,” he says faintly, a low whine growing at the back of his throat when Derek palms at his dick through the thin cotton of his underwear. Derek moves his hands up, dipping his fingers below the waistband of Stiles’ (Batman-free) boxers and dragging them down over his hips to free his erection.

“Good,” Derek says simply, before swallowing down Stiles’ dick in one fluid movement. His hips jerk forward without his permission and he lets out a strangled cry, one hand flying to Derek’s head while the other grips the edge of the dresser, scrabbling to find purchase.

“Jesus fuck, warn a guy,” Stiles groans, hips snapping forward again involuntarily when Derek swirls his tongue over the tip of his cock. Derek hums and pushes Stiles’ hips back against the bedroom door, holding him firmly in place as he attempts to suck Stiles’ brain out through his dick.

It seems to be working pretty well actually.

“I'm not going to need five minutes,” Stiles grits out, transfixed by the sight of Derek’s lips stretched around his cock; he can feel his orgasm building already, a white hot point of pressure low in his stomach. This is going to be an embarrassingly short blowjob. “Oh fuck, I'm-” He tries to articulate something vague about Derek taking his mouth away, but he loses the ability to speak when Derek takes him all the way down to the base, tongue dragging slowly and firmly up the length - and his orgasm completely blindsides him. He groans, hand tightening in Derek’s hair, and comes straight down the other man’s throat. Derek, apparently unfazed, doesn't miss a drop, swallowing it all and working Stiles through his orgasm until his dick is too sensitive to be touched. When Stiles pushes weakly at his shoulders, Derek pulls off him with an obscene ‘pop’, sitting back on his heels and looking incredibly pleased with himself.

“Is that another werewolf skill?” Stiles says weakly, once he’s able to speak again. “Giving insanely good blowjobs?”

“I’m not in the habit of asking around,” Derek says dryly, his voice a little scratchy from - oh yeah - giving Stiles the best orgasm of his life so far. He’s holding out hope that more may be to come in this area.

“C’mere,” he says, beckoning Derek upwards; he stands obediently and Stiles pulls him forwards for a sloppy post-orgasm kiss. He can taste himself in Derek’s mouth and, while he’s not 100% sure he likes it, it’s not terrible and he’s certainly not gonna be _that_ guy. He pulls away for a breath and presses a hand to where Derek is still fantastically hard in his jeans. It elicits a low groan and Derek drops his forehead to Stiles’ shoulder, one hand braced against the door. Emboldened by the involuntary thrusts Derek is making against his hand, and feeling more than a little come-drunk, Stiles leans forward and nips at the soft skin below Derek’s ear. The noise he makes this time is _even better_.

“What do you want?” Stiles asks breathlessly, unbuttoning Derek’s jeans and slipping a hand inside his boxers to get a hand around Derek’s cock. Stiles feels his own dick jump in response (he’s a teenage boy, okay - he has a heck of a refractory period) and he’s spurred on when an experimental flick of his wrist causes Derek to punch out a guttural moan.

“Just your - your hands, Stiles. Jesus,” Derek rasps, thrusting into Stiles’ fist as Stiles sets a slow, steady rhythm. “I nearly swallowed my tongue the first time I saw you making a fucking vase,” he chokes out, human teeth grazing Stiles’ neck like he’s looking for an anchor. “I’ve wanted your hands on me since the second I saw you in those… fuck. Those obscene jeans.” Stiles speeds up, unable to help the moan that comes out of his own mouth. They could have been doing this for _weeks_.

“My hands are on you now,” he says quietly, letting his head fall back against the door as Derek bites down on his neck, no doubt leaving a heck of a bruise. “Jesus _fuck_ Derek - I need you to come right now so that we can do this again in about five minutes. Want you to fuck me on every surface in this room and then I want to fuck _you_ on every surface in this room - _come on_.” And with another flick of Stiles’ wrist, Derek comes, spilling onto Stiles’ hand and exposed thighs - and probably onto his pretentious charcoal pants too.

When Derek eventually gets his breath back, he lifts his head to look at Stiles and his eyes look surprisingly wary - guarded.

“We’re dating now,” Stiles blurts out, not wanting to ruin the mood but also desperately needing to make that absolutely clear. “We’re going to go on dates and we’re going to fuck and it’s going to be awesome. Okay?”

Derek’s face clears instantly and the small smile is back.

“Are you going to be this domineering all the time?”

“Absolutely. Also, I’m hard again. Want to maybe do something about that?”

Derek does.

 

* * *

 

In the end Stiles flies through his speech, and it definitely isn’t as terrifying as he thought it would be. Far more terrifying is trying to explain to his dad why there are claw marks on the inside of his bedroom door.

And on the desk.

And the bed frame.

Sheriff Stilinski kindly does not clean his gun in front of Derek when all is revealed, but he does at least jump a little when he has the physical realities of Derek’s ‘condition’ shown to him. He recovers quickly.

“If you hurt Stiles, there is not a place on this earth that you will be able to hide from me. Also, you’re paying to replace that door.”

“Yes, sir.”

Stiles’ life is awesome.

**Author's Note:**

> This was getting too long so I've had to separate it into chapters because I have no self-control and I'm unironically in love with description. It's a four-way relationship with unnecessary italics and dramatic line breaks. We're going to have a summer wedding. Please - no confetti.
> 
> In my view, canon is a big gun and nothing more; nobody is safe from my big gay paintbrush.
> 
> Please let me know what your thoughts are - for example, is Stiles too jittery? Is Derek terse enough? What colour scheme should I and my wanton mistresses have at our wedding? So many questions, so little time. Kudos and comments are welcome in equal measure, as are endless devotion and grudging respect.
> 
> Thank you for dropping in - you're all stunning. Seriously. Is that a new hat? Wow. It really sets off your eyes.
> 
> EDIT: Don't worry, your hat is still wonderful. I've re-rated this as 'mature' from 'teen and up' because the next chapter is going to be a bit more saucy (ooh-er missus), and also I enjoy the freedom of gratuitous swearing. That's all - as you were.
> 
> EDIT MK2 (the return of the EDIT): I am a cis woman who is in a relationship with another cis woman. I have never done the frickle-frackle with someone with a penis, so artistic licence is my best friend in this fic. Is this even what they do? Who knows! Certainly not me. But I have roughly 200 or so bookmarks that at least give me an idea of how these things work, as well as an active imagination and... Well. I'm 25. I've seen things. Things I cannot unsee. Anyway, feel free to criticise my understanding of inter-penis relations, but just know that my only response will be to shrug and point in the general vicinity of my partner's penis-less trousers.


End file.
